Читать книгу Marry Me - Jo Goodman - Страница 11

It was a struggle to sit up. Rhyne supported herself on her elbows and stayed there while the first wave of pain ebbed. Grimacing, she inched backward until she felt the headboard pressing against her shoulders. With the iron rails behind her, she was able to rise to a full sitting position.

Her first coherent thought was that she was late beginning her chores. She’d seen the position of the sun from Judah’s window often enough to know she should be bringing him breakfast now, not merely waking herself. She hadn’t gathered eggs or fed the chickens. The horses needed her attention. There was no fresh water in the pitcher on the washstand and no kettle heating on the stove. Normally the aroma of brewing coffee would be filling the cabin, nudging Judah awake before she arrived at his door with his tray.

She’d tasted the coffee that the sheriff and Will brewed in their office, and it wasn’t an invitation to linger. She couldn’t imagine that the prisoners got a cup that was any better. That no-account Beatty boy didn’t know what he’d taken on when he’d taken Judah in. Her father often set his mood by that first cup: bitter, black, and blistering hot.

Rhyne glanced at the empty chair at her bedside. She remembered waking once in the middle of the night and seeing the doctor sitting there, his head bent forward, his breathing slow and steady. At first she thought he was sleeping, then realized he had positioned the lantern and turned it down so that the circle of pale yellow light fell on his lap, or more precisely, on the book he had open in it. Even as she watched him, he turned the page. She considered telling him to put the book back before Judah discovered it was missing, but the recollection that it was Judah that was missing came to her before she spoke.

She fell asleep again before he turned another page, yet the memory of his hands lingered. She could see one of them folded around the book, the other lying flat over the page he wasn’t reading. His hands were broad, the fingers long with nails that were trimmed short and scrubbed clean. The whole of his hands was clean, she recalled now: the tips, the palms, the creases of his knuckles. She imagined him rubbing them together over the basin, squeezing lather from between his fingers, reciting Lady Macbeth’s best-known line, “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” The vision of it made her lips twitch.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Cole stood in the open doorway, a tray in his hands. “May I?”

Surprised by his sudden appearance, Rhyne blinked. How had she not heard him? She couldn’t believe he’d been that quiet, so she had to suppose her reverie had been that deep. She jerked her chin at the tray and regarded him narrowly. “I don’t smell anything. What do you have there?”

“Broth and bread.” He watched her curl her lip in disapproval. “It’s what I believe you can tolerate.”

“My stomach knows better.”

Cole decided that conversation was an invitation and carried the tray in. He set it carefully on one corner of the washstand and then looked over his patient. The curl in her lip had disappeared, but her mouth was tight, suggesting she was in considerable pain. “I can give you some laudanum after you eat something.”

“I don’t want laudanum ladled down my throat. It muddies my mind.”

Cole didn’t ask about the circumstances that gave her familiarity with the opiate. Instead he said, “I’d like to examine you.”

“I’ll eat.” Rhyne held out her hands for the tray.

“I wasn’t trying to trick you into eating. I’ll still want to examine you.”

She said nothing and kept her arms extended.

Cole passed the tray and made sure she could balance it on her lap before he sat down. He propped his heels on the bed rail and folded his arms comfortably across his chest.

“You’re going to watch me eat?” she asked.

“I thought I would, yes.”

“If I had my rifle …”

“It’s under the bed on your right. Would you like me to hold the tray while you get it?”

“You’d do that?”

“If it would make you feel better.”

Rhyne wondered if she could believe him. His expression was grave, too grave perhaps to be strictly credited, and it occurred to her that he was secretly amused. It followed that she amused him, and while that didn’t agree with her, it was better than being the object of pity.

She tore off a corner of bread and pushed it into her mouth, aware that his eyes followed her movement. Wrapping two hands around the cup, she sipped the beef broth. The crust of day old bread softened in her mouth and she swallowed.

“I don’t remember your name,” she said.

“Cole Monroe.”

Rhyne tore off another piece of bread. This time she dipped it in the broth before she put it in her mouth. “What’s the point of watching me? Doc Diggins never did.”

“It’s already well established in town that I’m no Doc Diggins, but it’s possible that’s not always unflattering. I observe all my patients.”

“It’s peculiar,” she said flatly.

“You’re right-handed. You have no fixed contractures of your arms and legs, allowing you full extension of both. No curvature of your spine, and also no evidence of rachitis.” He responded to her raised eyebrow. “Rickets.”

“You might have said so at the outset.”

“Indeed, I might have.”

He was practically daring her to shoot him, she decided.

“That’s all?” she asked.

“Well, there’s no spasticity in your movements, no gross deformities of your hips or feet. Except for the fact that your nose has been broken, there are no apparent physical deviations of your face. Your respiration is normal, your fever appears to have passed, and you’re able to make good eye contact.”

“Maybe I’m just observing you.”

He gave her a faint, knowing smile. “You’ve just proven that your gross hearing is within normal limits, as is your gross vision. Your color is improved this morning. There is no blue tinge to your lips or fingertips that would suggest a lack of oxygen to your tissues. As evidenced by the look you’re giving me now, I would say that you have coherent expression of thought and feeling.”

“Are the hairs at the back of your neck standing up?”

“They are.”

“Huh. I guess I do have coherent expression.” She raised the cup of broth to her lips, watching him over the rim, and took another sip. When she set it down, she said, “So you’re done examining me.”

“Hardly.”

She nodded slowly, having expected that answer. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of it.”

“No. And it would be better all the way around if you didn’t fight me, either.”

Rhyne couldn’t even pretend she had the strength for that. Feeling cowardly because she couldn’t quite meet his eyes, she said, “I wouldn’t mind some of that laudanum about now.”

Cole didn’t comment. He simply reached for his bag on the floor, opened it, and removed one of the cobalt blue bottles. Using the spoon he’d placed on Rhyne’s tray, he measured out a half dose. “You can take it yourself,” he said, “or I’ll give it to you.”

Rhyne looked down at her hands, saw the slight tremor, and knew she couldn’t get the spoon to her mouth without spilling some of the medicine. It pained her that he must have also seen it, because the spoon was suddenly poised at her narrowly parted lips. She opened her mouth and swallowed.

Without a word, Cole took the tray and removed it to the kitchen. He washed the cup and spoon, and then stepped onto the front porch to shake bread crumbs off the tray. Chickens pecked the ground around the crumbs. He’d already tossed feed to them, but they evidently liked the bread better. Shaking his head, he went back inside and laid the tray on the table.

Rhyne was still sitting up in bed when he returned. He counted it as a good sign that she wasn’t pointing the Winchester at him but didn’t fool himself into believing her disposition had improved in his absence. Fear was in the thread of tension he’d observed earlier. The slight tremor in her hands could have been explained by a host of conditions from delirium tremens to ague to exhaustion, but he didn’t think he was wrong to suppose Rhyne Abbot’s root cause was dread.

He imagined it was life experience that gave her the bravado to face him with her chin up and her jaw thrust forward. In her own way she was preparing for a punch, and in truth, she probably would have preferred one.

Her mind wasn’t the least muddy.

Cole put himself between the chair and the bed. “I need you to lie down,” he said. “Do you want help?” When she shook her head, he simply dropped into the chair and waited. She moved carefully, in obvious discomfort, gritting her teeth so no sound escaped her throat. His sister made more noise getting up from the table.

“There’s no hurry,” he told her after she was flat on her back. Last night he had been able to remove the litter poles and dress Rhyne in a clean shirt, but she was still lying on the bloodstained sheet that had carried her in. A fresh pillowcase had taken care of the tobacco juice. “How long have you chewed tobacco?”

The question startled Rhyne. She stopped staring at the ceiling and tilted her head in Cole’s direction. “About half my life. How did you know?”

“You choked on a chaw last night. You could have died. You don’t remember?” He wasn’t surprised when she shook her head. “Do you chew in earnest or for show?”

She smiled slightly at the question. “All the world’s a stage.”

He liked her answer. “You fooled a lot of people.”

Rhyne said nothing for a moment then offered quietly, in the manner of a confession, “Sometimes I fooled myself.”

Cole saw that she regretted the admission as soon as it crossed her lips. He didn’t doubt that it was the soporific effect of the laudanum that made her less guarded. “How do you feel about people in town learning the truth?”

Rhyne bit into her lower lip and turned her head away.

“You should prepare yourself,” Cole said. “You’re going to be a curiosity.”

“There’s nothing new about that.”

Cole thought he heard a faint catch in her voice. He was better prepared to face her anger than either her shame or her distress. “No one will know about the baby unless you want to tell.”

Rhyne remained quiet.

“No one will know about the baby’s father.”

“You don’t know about him, either.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.” Cole waited to see if she would tell him now. “You can’t live out here with Judah.”

“He’s my father. I take care of him.”

The way she said it was not precisely a protest, Cole thought, but more of a statement of fact. “He’ll kill you some day. I think he meant to.”

She shook her head vehemently but still didn’t look at him. “No, you don’t understand. He didn’t. Wouldn’t. It was the baby he hated.”

Cole didn’t offer his opinion to the contrary. He’d seen Judah’s eyes when he called his daughter a whore, glimpsed the loathing that made him raise his girl as if she were his son. Perhaps it was Judah that Rhyne had fooled most successfully, not that he didn’t know she was female, just that she had been able to make him forget–right up until the moment he realized she was carrying a child. That had removed the scales from his eyes and unleashed his fury.

“We’ll leave it until later,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’d like to begin my examination.”

Cole accepted Rhyne’s permission as the absence of an objection. He took the thermometer out of the bag. “May I open your shirt? I want to take your temperature.” At her faint nod, he unfastened the first two buttons, slipped the material over her shoulder, and placed the thermometer under her arm. “It will take some time.” He withdrew his stethoscope. “Your heart now.”

“I thought you observed it was fine.”

“This just makes me thorough.”

“I liked observation better.”

“Liar.” Cole placed the bell over her heart and listened. “Now your lungs.” He helped her on her side. “Can you cough for me?” She did, but it was painful and caused her to draw up her knees. “That’s enough. Just breathe in and out, deeply and slowly. Good. Like that.” He eased her onto her back. “I want to see the welts.” He saw her tense and waited it out before he folded down the sheet. “Do you want to lift your shirt or shall I?”

It gave Rhyne some small comfort that he asked. “I’ll do it.” Closing her eyes, she scrabbled at the fabric with her fingers until the flat of her abdomen was exposed.

“I’m going to swab them with a tincture of mercury and salicylate that I asked Chet Caldwell at the pharmacy to prepare for me when I came to Reidsville. It will be wet and a little cold.” He prepared a cotton pad with the tincture and swept it lightly over each of her wales. She shivered slightly but otherwise didn’t move. “I have to remove the wadding between your legs.” He did this quickly, examining it for blood. There was very little evidence that she’d bled after the last change, but he replaced it with a clean cotton cloth anyway. “I think we can put you in a pair of drawers now.”

Rhyne nodded. She kept her eyes closed and threw up barriers one after another to keep humiliation from tearing out her soul.

“I have a pair here,” Cole said. “I found them in a trunk in the root cellar. I aired them out on the back stoop.”

“Just my regular drawers,” she said.

“You only have a union suit,” he said, lifting one of her legs. “I don’t want to cut another one off of you if there are complications.”

She didn’t ask about complications. She didn’t speak at all, accepting this was another argument she had no strength for. Although she had never had a doll, she knew what they were and how young girls cared for them. Now she allowed herself to be cared for in exactly that manner, lying back without dignity or complaint, dressed in lace-trimmed undergarments that made her feel extraordinarily vulnerable.

Rhyne imagined she should have felt some relief when he finally pushed them over her hips and drew the strings taut at her waist, but she only felt exposed, more naked now than when she’d had nothing on.

“Are you all right? Have I pulled them too tight?”

She batted his hand away then laid her forearm over her eyes. The thermometer slipped under the sleeve of her shirt, and she had to lie still while he probed under the chambray.

Cole read the thermometer. “Almost returned to normal.”

If only that were true, Rhyne thought. She tugged on her shirt, fixing it over her shoulder and smoothing the fabric across her belly. She allowed Cole to pull the sheet over her, mostly because she couldn’t stop him from helping her. She wanted to wail.

“When are you going to let me get up and get on with my business?”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“I can’t stay in bed all day.”

“If you get up now you won’t be able to stay out of it for the next three days.” It was an exaggeration but not much of one. “You need to rest. You’re strong, healthy, there’s no reason you can’t move around tomorrow. Nothing strenuous, though.”

She lifted her forearm and glared at him.

“Will’s sending out someone to help with the place.”

“Who?”

“Johnny Winslow was his first choice. Ned Beaumont was the runner-up.”

Rhyne groaned. “Not Ned. He’ll get half the work done in twice the time. I can’t afford him.”

“Then hope that Johnny shows up.”

Rhyne supposed that was all she could do. “You’re not going to sit in here all day, are you?”

Cole shook his head. “Not if you tell me what’s to be done.”

“I meant that you could go in the other room, maybe get some sleep. You look haggard.”

Remembering Will’s comment about Rhyne finding no favor in his fine patrician looks, Cole’s mouth twisted in a wry smile as he bent to retrieve his notebook and pencil. He recorded Rhyne’s temperature and then turned the page. “Give me your chore list,” he said. “First to last.”

Rhyne found that obeying the doctor’s edicts was downright disagreeable, but she didn’t really doubt that he understood her limits better than she did. She only had to recall how she’d slept the morning away after giving him the list. Cole Monroe had been forced to shake her awake when he brought her lunch: more bread and broth, and to prove that he wasn’t trying to starve her, a soft-cooked egg.

Lying in bed, she could hear him chopping wood. Try as she might, there was no angle from the bed that allowed her to see more than limber pine and blue sky through the window. Rhyne took her sense of his activity by listening to it. He didn’t know how to swing an ax or efficiently set and stack the wood. She found herself holding her breath at times, quite literally waiting for the ax to fall. Sometimes the wood would split; sometimes Dr. Monroe would swear. He couldn’t find his rhythm, so he did a great deal of swearing.

Rhyne didn’t mind the swearing. It made him ordinary in a comfortable sort of way, reminded her that he was flesh and blood and bone. He hadn’t seemed so regular the first time she’d had him in her rifle sight. On that occasion, coming through the trees on horseback, he’d put her in mind of a warrior king. She’d only seen drawings of men like Alexander, Charlemagne, and Marc Antony in her father’s books, but Cole Monroe was one of their ilk: proud, straight, and tall, with features struck from marble with tools only the gods could have used.

She’d pulled her shot on purpose, sending it just wide of his perfectly cast ear. Rhyne recalled that he hadn’t been able to stay in the seat of his startled mount, but perhaps not even warrior kings could manage a beast like Becken. The stallion was known to be the most powerful–and the most skittish–animal in Joe Redmond’s livery, and Rhyne believed Joe had sense enough not to send Becken out with a greenhorn. If nothing else, respect for the horse should have stopped him.

Rhyne knew now that by giving Joe the benefit of the doubt, she’d allowed herself to set Cole Monroe firmly in the pages of Judah’s history books. There was comfort in that, too, or at least there was safety. If he wasn’t real, then neither was the danger.

It had been foolish, she supposed, to believe the doctor wouldn’t come calling again. If she’d known that Sheriff Cooper was behind it, she would have been prepared. Most likely, she would have made herself scarce so that even that no-account Beatty boy couldn’t have found her. Instead, she’d walked directly into the trap the sheriff set for her and put herself at the mercy of the warrior.

Rhyne remembered lying in the scrub grass, helpless to defend herself when Cole Monroe knelt at her side. Sunlight at his back cast his face in shadow but didn’t obscure the strong definition of his features. They were still visible, even through the haze of her pain. His jaw, square and vaguely aggressive, was set so tightly that a muscle worked in his lean cheek, and each time he drew a breath there was a slight flaring of his nostrils, just enough to make her think of dragons and dragon slayers and wonder which he was. She recalled that moment when his hat fell back and sunshine glinted off his dark copper hair. She’d had the fanciful impression of a halo of fire, an impression that wasn’t dispelled by the flash and fury she saw in his eyes.

She listened to the ax fall again and smiled faintly at the muttered curse that followed. Since it seemed unlikely that he’d exhaust his repertoire of cuss words, Rhyne figured Cole Monroe would have to learn to hit his target squarely before he cut himself off at the knees.

Cole set down the ax and paused to shake out the kink in his right shoulder. He massaged his upper arm, rolling the shoulder one way then reversing the motion. He felt the strain on muscles he’d forgotten how to use. It wasn’t unpleasant, but then he knew the deep ache wouldn’t begin for hours. He had no objection to physical labor and no bias toward those that engaged in it for their livelihood. Most people didn’t appreciate the hard work that hospital doctoring entailed: lifting and transporting patients; standing for hours in surgery; walking the wards in an endless loop; climbing stairs two at time and upward of thirty times a day. There were orderlies to assist, but it was Cole’s experience that they had a gift for being elsewhere when they were needed most. Some doctors would rather spend their time following an orderly’s trail rather than move patients or attend to their most basic needs, but Cole was rarely one of them.

Still, chopping wood was strenuous in an altogether different manner than he was accustomed to. It didn’t help that he wasn’t very good at it. Raising the brim of his hat, he swiped at his brow with his forearm and looked off in the direction he expected help to appear. He scanned the crest of the ridge and saw nothing that made him think he could pass off this chore onto someone else.

He was on the point of picking up the ax when he heard Rhyne cry out, and he was already turning when the hard thump and clatter reached his ears. Cole took off on a run, covering the ground to the cabin in short order.

He had a picture in his mind of what he could expect when he reached Rhyne’s room, but there was no satisfaction in being right. She was lying on her side on the floor, her feet tangled in the sheet that she’d dragged from the bed. The washstand was overturned beside her, and he judged by its position that it had missed her by the narrowest of margins. That explained the thump. He attributed the clatter to the basin and pitcher that were lying just out of her reach. Water had spilled from both, forming a pool that was slowly moving toward Rhyne’s head. One sleeve of her shirt was already damp.

“I told you not to get out of bed.” He didn’t try to mask his annoyance. “Don’t be surprised if I shoot you first. I can get to your rifle a lot quicker than you can.”

Rhyne pulled her arms under her and tried to push herself up.

“Don’t move. For God’s sake, just lie there and catch your breath.” He bent and picked up the washstand. Towels had spilled from the cupboard under it. He shoved those back inside and closed the door, then he replaced the basin and pitcher. Dropping to his haunches beside Rhyne, Cole helped her turn on her back and lifted her to a sitting position by supporting her shoulders.

“What was so important that you had to get up?”

She stared at him mutinously. “Are you mule-stupid?”

“I must be.”

Rhyne shook her head, disgust, not embarrassment, defining the line of her mouth. “I’m about to burst,” she said tightly.

That took some steam from Cole’s boiler. He knew he should have thought of that and left the pot within her easy reach, or better yet, made certain she emptied her bladder before he left the house. “Where’s the pot?”

“Under the bed.”

“All right. Let me untangle you and get you up to your knees.” Cole pulled the sheet out from under her legs and tossed it on the bed. He allowed Rhyne to struggle a bit changing position before he offered help. She needed to have a better sense of her own limitations if she was going to heal properly. While she caught her breath, he lowered his head to the floor to look under the bed.

He guessed that she’d probably pushed the pot deeper when she first tried to grasp it. Making a sweep with his arm, Cole pulled it forward. He also captured two lengths of rope. He knew immediately he was holding what had been used to bind Rhyne’s wrists or ankles to the bed frame. A second sweep would likely produce another pair. Instead of reaching for them, he passed the pot to Rhyne and pocketed the rope out of her sight.

“I’ll leave you,” he said. “Call me when you’re finished.”

Standing on the front porch, Cole examined the rope in the sunlight. Dried blood flecked both lengths but not enough for Cole to conclude that they had been used regularly as restraints. He raised his arm in preparation of pitching both ropes as far as he could, but in the end stayed his own hand. Returning them to his pocket, he leaned back against the rough-hewn cabin wall and waited for Rhyne to summon him.

“It burned,” she told him when he arrived in the room. “Making water’s never burned before.”

Cole nodded, helping her to her feet. “Your urethra’s inflamed, and there are scratches and fine tears on your labia.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have any idea what I just said?”

“No, but plain speaking isn’t your strong suit. I’m learning that about you.”

He let Rhyne’s nails sink into his arm as she lowered herself to the mattress. “I take it Doc Diggins spoke differently.”

“I never traded too many words with him,” Rhyne said. “But I don’t recall that he ever said something I couldn’t comprehend. He set my nose once and I know he just called it my nose.”

“Always a good choice,” Cole said dryly.

“Well,” she demanded, “what else is it?”

He eased Rhyne back and laid the sheet over her again. “Well, in my case, it’s a proboscis.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “Why in your case?”

“Because it’s prominent.” He gave Rhyne his profile and let her judge for herself.

“It’s noble.”

Cole chuckled softly. “Did that no-account Beatty boy tell you to say that?”

Rhyne shook her head. “No, why would he?”

“That’s a good question.” Cole straightened, placing his palms at the small of his back. “So how did he come by that name? I don’t have an answer for that either.”

“Did you ask Will why folks call him that?”

“No. I thought I’d like to work it out on my own.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“You know?”

“Of course I know. I’ve known him all my life.”

Cole folded his arms across his chest as he studied her. She had a kitten-in-the-cream smile turning up the corners of her mouth. In that moment it was difficult to reconcile the fact that she had managed to pass muster as a boy, then as a man. “Is there any chance he was responsible for breaking your nose?”

Rhyne had to clutch her middle to contain the pain as she laughed. “Will Beatty? Lord, no. If there was a fight, he mostly stood in the ring of spectators. His mother taught piano for a lot of years, you know, and Will can play. Ma Beatty would have been plenty disappointed if he broke his hands.”

“Is that so?” Cole didn’t try to check his amusement.

Rhyne nodded. “He’s good, too. I heard him play a couple of times at the Miner Key. He knows songs with words and lots of them that don’t have any.”

Cole’s smile deepened a fraction. “I couldn’t have guessed.”

She shrugged. “I think it depends on where you’re standing to know a thing like that.”

“And I’m still outside looking in.”

“And I’m inside out.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, but that’s an indication that you need to rest.” A second indicator was that she didn’t argue with him. He picked up the ceramic pot to dispose of the contents and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Johnny Winslow arrived at dusk. He shared a talent with the deputy for making a short story long and a long story dramatic, so Cole was out of patience by the time the youthful Mr. Winslow came to a halt. The gist of the tale was that his horse lost a shoe and Johnny had to turn back to have the blacksmith repair it. He was offered another mount by Joe Redmond, but refused to take Becken because of the stallion’s reputation for recalcitrance and leaving his riders dusting off their britches.

“There’s not much you can do now,” Cole said, looking Johnny over. The young man had a restlessness about him that did not make him a quiet companion even when he wasn’t talking. “Take your roll up to the loft. We can share the space.”

“I don’t mind bunkin’ outdoors. Prefer it, in fact.”

“That’s up to you.”

Johnny nodded. He had to push back a lock of hair that immediately spilled over his forehead. “There’s no rain expected. I checked with Sid. His rheumatism is the same today as it was yesterday.”

Cole had learned that Sid Walker’s joints substituted for a standard barometer in Reidsville. By all accounts, his predictions were reliable. “Well, then, I suppose you can have your pick of places to sleep.”

Johnny set his roll on the floor. “I reckon you’re probably hungry. I can make dinner.” He started walking toward the stove. “What’s your pleasure? Will told me that Runt had everything I’d need.”

“You can cook?” Cole hadn’t expected that. He’d only ever observed Johnny in the completion of routine chores at Longabach’s restaurant.

“Sure. I’ve been watching Estella and Henry for years. Lately, Estella’s been letting me have a turn. You haven’t been at the restaurant much, I noticed.”

“Whitley likes to cook for me.” Cole refrained from confiding that his sister wasn’t particularly adept at it. “She should be doing other things. I’m thinking of hiring a housekeeper that would also cook for us.”

“Doc Diggins did,” Johnny said. “So what do you want for dinner? Should I ask Runt?”

“No, Runt’s resting. I saw ham in the curing shed. Start there and surprise me with the rest.”

Johnny paused as he was checking the stove’s ash pan. “Now you know the Longabachs’ serve plain fare, not that fancy food you get at the Commodore.”

“Plain is fine, Johnny. And I haven’t been to the Commodore except to attend to a guest’s appendicitis. I can promise you that after a day of doing Runt’s chores, I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.”

“Then we’ll be fine, Doc. I’m good at this.”

Cole didn’t allow Johnny to take the meal he prepared to Runt. He carried it in instead, settling the tray on her lap after she sat up. “How do you feel about seeing Mr.

Winslow?”

Unsure, Rhyne slowly picked up her fork. “Does he know about me?”

“I can’t say. He asked how you were getting on and seemed satisfied with my answers. He didn’t show more curiosity than that.”

“Maybe Will didn’t tell him.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he left it up to you.” Her uncertainty was palpable, and Cole let her wrestle with it. “You don’t have to decide this minute. I can hold him off tonight, but know this, Rhyne, I’m not getting you a rub of tobacco to pouch in your cheek or letting you apply dirt and sweat like you were making an entrance from stage right.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t think she could make him understand how naked she felt.

“Eat what you can,” he said, rising. He was all too aware that he’d spoiled her appetite. “I’ll come back to get the tray.”

Johnny Winslow entertained Cole with a series of circular tales about the denizens of Reidsville. Some were funny, like the time Gracie Showalter locked her husband out of the house buck-naked in retaliation for tramping mud all over her clean floors. Some were poignant, like the passing of Wyatt Cooper’s first wife while he was out in the back of beyond making photographs. Still others were cautionary, as when Foster Maddox, heir to the California-and-Colorado railroad line, tried to take over the Calico Spur and the town rallied to take it back.

In spite of his flagging energy, Cole remained interested. While his contract with the town was straightforward, the actual arrangement was unique, and so he gathered the threads of Johnny’s stories as material for the tapestry that explained Reidsville.

The town gave him a home for which he did not have to pay rent. Moreover, at the end of a year, the house would be his outright if he and the committee agreed upon his continued stay. If he left after that, he could sell the house back to the town and was guaranteed a fair price for it. He arrived with his own instruments and a few medical journals, but a reference library, surgery, and examining office were all provided for him. Mrs. Easter had taken great pride, as well she should have, in pointing out the new microscope on his desk.

“Doc Diggins had one like it,” she’d told him. “For show, mostly, because I never saw him look in it, but one couldn’t help but feel more confident about him for having it.”

Reflecting on Mrs. Easter’s words now, Cole was reminded how true they were. Too often doctoring was more showmanship than science. It was Cole’s aim to change that, at least in Reidsville.

“You look about ready to call it a day,” Johnny told Cole. “You want me to get Runt’s tray?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Okay.” Johnny stood and began clearing the table. He was almost done by the time Cole got to his feet.

Rhyne looked up when Cole slipped into the room. She held out the tray. “He’s going to think I didn’t like it.”

“I’ll tell him you just weren’t hungry. That’s true,

isn’t it?”

“It’s true,” she said. “But I want to tell him myself.” Cole arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “I’d rather do it without an audience. Johnny and me. Alone. He never paid much notice to me when I was in town. He was polite and all, just not one of the ones who liked to rile me and stir things up.”

Now it was Cole who hesitated. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Go on. Send him in.”

Cole set the tray down. “Not until I bandage your shoulder.” When she looked at him oddly, he explained. “It was Will’s idea to tell folks you were shot. He came up with that to explain why I stayed back and he returned to town.”

“Shot?!” Her dark eyebrows darted toward her cap of badly cropped hair. “Who shot me?”

Rhyne’s clear indignation was not unexpected. Cole held up his hands, palms out, absolving himself of responsibility. “Miscreants, Will said.”

“He’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but he warmed to the story so quickly there was no turning him from it. I’m just going to put a sling on your right arm and shoulder. Keep it still and don’t let Johnny get too curious about your wound. What you want to tell him about the miscreant that shot you is your business. My advice? Say the least you can. He’ll have no difficulty making the story his own. You won’t recognize it when you hear it again.”

Cole adjusted the sling, running a finger under the knot at Rhyne’s neck to make certain it wasn’t too tight. He felt her seized by a sudden tremor and realized he shouldn’t have touched her without seeking permission. “I should have warned you,” he said, his tone curt.

“Which do you hate more?” Rhyne asked, watching him closely. “Making a mistake or apologizing for it?”

Cole pretended he hadn’t heard. He stood, retrieved the tray, and bid her good night, leaving the door open. “Runt wants to say hello,” he told Johnny, passing off the tray. “Don’t stay too long.”

“You goin’ to bed?”

“Soon. I thought I’d step outside for a while.”

Johnny was unsuccessful at masking his surprise, but he didn’t say anything. “Suit yourself.”

Nodding, Cole did just that. The evening air that greeted him was clear and cool: another successful forecast for Sid Walker. Breathing deeply, he set his shoulder against one of the supports and waited. He didn’t know the precise nature of what he was waiting for, only that he would understand what to do when it came to him.

As it turned out, it was laughter, and once he heard it and knew Rhyne would be fine, Coleridge Monroe turned in.

“Johnny says you got him good,” Cole told Rhyne. “And he didn’t appear to be bothered by it. If his reaction is any indication of what you can expect from others, the town is going to be much more astonished that you were shot than by the fact that you’re a woman.”

“Will should have never said that about me.”

Cole shrugged as he put his stethoscope away. “I told you, he suggested a broken limb at first, but it grew like Topsy from there.”

Rhyne’s slate gray eyes narrowed a fraction as she plotted revenge. “I’ll settle up with that no-account Beatty boy. Just see if I don’t.”

“I have no doubt,” said Cole. He helped her sit up in bed and rearranged the sling for her comfort. It did not escape his notice that her stiff movements were accompanied by a grimace. “Where do you hurt?”

“Are you going to be a burr under my saddle about it?”

“I am.”

She sighed. “My belly.”

“Inside or outside?”

“Outside.”

“The welts, then. Do you have any ointment? Liniment?”

Rhyne looked pointedly at his medical bag, one dark eyebrow raised.

“I have tinctures for infection,” he explained, “but your welts are beginning to heal, and the discomfort is because your skin is being pulled taut. Most people have some salve or liniment in their homes, so I don’t carry it with me.”

“There’s a bottle of Mr. Caldwell’s special liniment in Judah’s chest of drawers.” She watched Cole cross the room to the narrow chest. “First one.”

Cole rooted through Judah’s handkerchiefs and socks and finally found it. “Do you know what’s in it?”

Rhyne shook her head. “Cat piss probably. That’s what it smells like.”

Having been forewarned, Cole removed the cork carefully and gently fanned one hand over the bottle. The scent that wafted toward him made his head jerk back and his features contract. He jammed the cork back into place.

“Told you,” Rhyne said. “Judah uses it on his hip when it’s grieving him. He swears by it.”

“Really?” He was skeptical, but he carried the bottle over to Rhyne anyway. “There’s camphor in it, and more than a little alcohol, but I have no idea what Mr. Caldwell uses to create that peculiar odor. Not many compounds can overpower camphor.”

Shaking her head, Rhyne took the bottle from his hand. “It’s better if you just keep it away from your proboscis. I’ll put it on myself, thank you.”

Cole didn’t argue. “I should go help Johnny. He got an early start on me.”

“He told me you were still sleeping when he brought me breakfast.”

“I suppose I was,” he said stiffly.

“There’s no need to take offense, Doctor. None was meant.”

He knew she was right. “Whitley says I’m thin-skinned about all the things I can’t do.”

“Sounds about right. Who’s Whitley?”

“My sister. She lives with me.”

“Do you take care of her or she of you?”

Cole didn’t have to think about that. “It’s both.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It’s not,” he allowed. “Most of the time.”

“Is she bossy?”

“She’s sixteen. She’s devious.”

“I was thinking she was older than you.”

He shook his head. “No. There are thirteen years between us.” Cole moved away from the bed to end the conversation. He suspected that boredom was provoking her questions, and that meant she was ready to engage in mild activity. “Is there something I can get you to read? That’s an extensive collection in the other room.”

“They’re all Judah’s.”

“He collected them, you mean.”

“I mean they’re all his. No one’s allowed to touch them without Judah’s permission, and he’s stingy with it.”

“He’s in jail. I don’t think he’ll know.”

“He’ll know. He always finds out.” Rhyne rolled the bottle of liniment between her palms as she considered the consequences of defying her father. “Nicholas Nickleby,” she said finally. Getting a switch across the back of her legs for Dickens was not the worst thing. “I’ve always liked that one.”

Cole nodded and left to get it. By the time he returned, Rhyne had applied the malodorous liniment and was setting the bottle on the washstand. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m going to leave you with Mr. Nickleby and lend Johnny a hand. I was thinking I’d like to get you up and moving around.” He saw by her hopeful expression that she would willingly abandon the book in favor of leaving the bed.

“Later,” he said firmly. “At lunch. I can help you to the table and maybe out to the porch after that.”

“We should do it now,” Rhyne said. But Cole had already turned away and she was talking to his back. He must have known she’d never throw the Dickens at him because he didn’t even try to hurry.

Cole found Johnny sitting on the corral fence. He had a saddle balanced on the rail beside him and saddle soap in one hand and a rag in the other. He was watching Dolly scratch her neck on a fence post. When Cole came up beside him, he pointed to the mare. “Did Joe Redmond suggest that you take Dolly or was that your idea?”

“Joe’s. Will told me that Dolly is familiar with the trails.”

“That’s because she’s about the same age as dirt. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, she couldn’t pull an old whore off a piss pot.”

There was an expression he hadn’t heard before. “Colorful.”

“You take my meaning, though.”

“I certainly do.” He looked over the other horses. “Which one did you ride out here?”

“The spotted gray. That’s Sassafras. Sassy to those familiar with her temperament. She likes to toss her head and pretend she’s ignoring you.”

“A coquette, then.”

Johnny pulled a face. “Ain’t that one of those fried potato and lamb balls they serve at the Commodore?”

“That’s a croquette. A coquette is a flirt.”

“Huh.” He rolled that around in his mind for a moment, then gave Cole a suspicious, sideways look. “I thought you never ate at the hotel.”

“They have croquettes in New York, Johnny. Banana.

Oyster and macaroni. Salmon. Sweetbread. Chicken and mushroom.”

Johnny’s mouth watered in appreciation. He glanced up at the sun. “Still got some time before lunch, I reckon. Too bad about that. I’ve got a powerful taste for some fritters.”

Cole chuckled. He put one foot on the lower rail and hoisted himself up beside Johnny. “Do the other horses have names?”

“Probably do. I only know Twist–the cinnamon gelding by the trough. That’s Runt’s horse, leastways it’s the one he, I mean she, rides into town when she’s not coming for a season’s worth of supplies. She has to bring the wagon for that. The two mares pull that.”

“I was under the impression she only ever went to Reidsville when she needed supplies.”

Johnny shrugged. “Mostly that’s it, but I’ve known Runt to come in for powders from Caldwell’s or to pick up leather goods at Wickham’s.” He held up the saddle soap. “Or something like this at the emporium.” He folded his palm around the soap again and rested his forearm on his knee. “I suppose I took notice because Mrs. Longabach makes me sweep the walk in front of the restaurant three or four times a day. Right there in the center of town, I don’t miss much.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.”

“In and out like the wind,” Johnny said. “That’s the way Runt moved. I always thought it was because she didn’t want trouble, though Lord knows she never ran from it.”

“And what do you think now?”

“I reckon Runt just didn’t want to be found out.” Johnny shook his head slowly. “Peculiar, ain’t it? Her pretendin’ all the years to be Judah’s son, I mean. Can’t help but wonder how old she was when she found out different. I didn’t ask her; didn’t think it would be polite on account of she’s a girl now, but I did wonder it. I have three sisters and a brother and we got around to comparing parts eventually.” He felt his face go hot. “We didn’t do nuthin’,” he explained quickly. “Just looked. Got a lickin’ for it, too.”

Cole was hard-pressed not to grin. “Children are curious, and they usually get punished for it. Fortunately, it doesn’t make a lasting impression.”

“Maybe your mother wasn’t using the right switch.” Johnny had an urge to rub his posterior even now. “I can tell you, willow leaves an impression.”

“I meant that we don’t stop being curious,” Cole said. He stared across the corral at Twist.

“I guess that’s true. I got me a girl now. Mary Showalter, but folks call her Molly. I get powerful curious about her.”

Cole did smile now and kept his own counsel. There wasn’t much point in explaining that curiosity was the precursor to scientific inquiry or that it had a far broader application than discovering what was under a woman’s skirts.

Still, Cole found himself wondering how old Rhyne was when she learned it for herself. And even more important, what happened next.